


Threat, The

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-06-03
Updated: 2002-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-20 07:51:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11331549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atThe Basement, which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onThe Basement's collection profile.





	Threat, The

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Threat, The

## Threat, The

#### by Wildy

The Threat  
by Wildy  
  
Pairing: M/K   
No spoilers.   
Rating: NC-17   
Disclaimer: AK and FM belong to CC -- that's the party line, anyway. I don't believe it, myself. Wildy made this, Deb beta'ed it. 

* * *

Make me, he says. Take this, but I'll be damned if I give it to you, he says. Reluctant victim of his senses and sneaky top from the bottom, that's always Fox Mulder. 

Well, all right. If that's the way it has to be I'll take it. Because the night howls sometimes, you know that? Because for me there is nobody else. Never was. Fucking never. Only he has been where I have, and brought back some of the same imperatives.... 

From Tunguska, with love. 

Love... Don't make me laugh, I have a split lip. I know who it is he loves. We're not even friends. It's not -- it's a gut thing, a skin thing, a dick thing. 

A dark thing. 

And nobody else can give it to him, not even her -- because only I know. 

That's why when I come up his stairs in the conniving night I push a gun in his face, so he can pretend he doesn't want this. And he blows me in the dark, hissing insults between his teeth in badly accented Russian, making me hurt him. I'm a stand-in. A substitute. That's all right, too. I remember some of the same things he does -- and some he'll never have an idea about. He thinks a few days in the gulag qualify for a nasty time. 

Oh, Mulder. You should try growing up in one. I love your cracked innocence that thinks itself broken. You're beautiful. You don't know. You don't know anything about me. You don't know anything about broken ... But your mouth knows the taste of pain and want when it closes around me, when you go to your knees and down on me in the lightless time. Some signal is recognized and responded to. Hunger meeting need. 

His mouth with the two messages, luscious and bitter with double meanings, words of contempt for the punishment they gather, insuring his plausible denial... Then the silent trance of lips and tongue and wet, depthless, giving ecstasy that means, it has to mean... 

It doesn't mean a thing. 

( I don't go there. I don't want to die.) 

When I walk out after the blowjob with him breathing behind me, I'm half a gasp away from sobbing outright, with the nameless coalblack ripping sensation in my chest that I always need two or three gulps of air to push back into oblivion where it belongs. 

He is the itch of a healing wound, maddening to the bone and impossible to scratch. Intimacy rubs it to blood and tears of agony. 

I miss the man even when he is in my face calling me an asshole before he kneels in front of me to suck my dick. 

He is a phantom pain, a missing limb, a nostalgia of screaming nerves and mangled signals. I want him in me hanging by his teeth to a chunk of my heart and for him to bite down. 

I want. 

Fox Mulder, listen to me. Listen well: I don't know what I want. I just know that only you have it. I feel like someone in a William Burroughs novel, addicted to some organic alien drug that makes you glow in the dark and turn to blue jelly. I feel bad. 

I wonder if you know that. I wonder if you would laugh at me for that. 

Alex Krycek is feeling bad, someone break out the champagne. Right, Mulder? Tolka sloshi, chorny lisa... Just listen: I only know that what I want is inside you. In your dark, dark mind, shot with light from burning fires. It's in the rift you carry everywhere with you, the screeching gap in your soul on the other side of 1973. Where you stand frozen, screaming into the thieving, diamond-white night sky. She's gone, Mulder. Samantha's gone. And if I told you that you would beat me half to death and shoot me the rest of the way, wouldn't you? 

Because the truth hurts when it's in your face and wearing mine. 

We are both of us insane. He risks everything for this. 

I risk my life. 

For this. This addiction perfected by the way we fit our nightmares together like a jigsaw puzzle from hell. His mouth is hotter than ground zero of a nuclear blast and I vaporize in it, trapped in my shadow. Mute. Destroyed. I don't know what he's thinking when he takes me, when he hugs my hips and gives me the only home I ever had. His eyes are open, but they're blank as enamel in the darknesses he creates around my visits. 

He will kill me one day. I belong to him. 

What I want is inside him. In the obscure recesses of his body where I've never been, in the mystery of his self. In the way his hair feels between my fingers. 

A phantom heartbreak. A missing link. Having a piece of him defines the loss of him. 

I'm coming back tonight, black fox. Let me at the flame. Let me in. 

Let me in before I call this thing by name. 

* * *

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Wildy 


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